Whirling, he faced to meet his enemies.
In the palace at Ghusa, Balimar had been lying in the Dedicates’ Keep. The ceiling rose high, some twenty feet, and soaring marble arches showed what had once been an open-air courtyard. But Raj Ahten had walled it in with cheap mud bricks, so that more Dedicates could be housed here.
Balimar's heart had pounded as he reached into the bandage on his hip, grasped the hilt of a long, narrow dagger that lay concealed there.
It had been easy to fake giving an endowment. As a warrior among the Ah'Kellah, he had taken enough endowments himself. He had seen how the Dedicates sweated as the forcibles were pressed to their bare flesh, how they swayed and cried out as the endowment was taken, how their eyes rolled back and they fell senseless to the ground afterward. So he had feigned giving the endowment. The scars of the forcible were upon him, but in his heart, he had only hatred to give to Raj Ahten.
His face betrayed no emotion, though he grinned inwardly. Raj Ahten's endless appetite for endowments would be his own undoing. His facilitators were working so hard to strip attributes from the local villagers that they had not even bothered to question the street urchins whom Balimar had bribed to pretend that he was their brother.
He had let the facilitators carry him into the innermost sanctuary of the keep, among the Dedicates. They were an ailing lot. He could hear them coughing, see them limping about.
The facilitators had tossed Balimar to the ground like a rag, throwing him near the door, simply because the Keep was so full.
Now, outside, a ram's horn blew three long blasts—Wuqaz Faharaqin's call to battle. It was a mere feint. Wuqaz and thirty men would ride to the gate, shoot arrows at the guards, killing as many as they could.
Indeed, even as Balimar lay there, a death cry arose, and horses began to scream.
Two guards within the Keep rushed toward the door. Their leader shouted, “We're under attack! Bar the gate behind me.” He rushed through.
The second guard was occupied for a moment, pulling the huge iron gates closed, placing the iron bar across it.
Balimar quietly sprang to his feet. For seeming days now he had sought to hold himself still so that his endowments of metabolism would not be revealed. Now he sprang with all speed toward the door.
The guard heard him, dropped the bar in place, and reached for the warhammer sheathed on his back. Balimar shoved him against the door and stabbed through the fellow's ring mail, angling the blade upward, so that the dagger sliced into his heart. He quickly drew the dagger out partway, then thrust it back in—once, twice, three times, and four.
The guard died with nothing more than a grunt escaping his lips.
Balimar made sure that the door was barred tight, and then turned to peer at the Dedicates in the Keep.
Silently, nine other men had risen up among them, all warriors of the Ah'kellah, each bearing a dagger to pierce a man's heart, or a cord to snap his neck. Already they had begun the slaughter. Balimar grabbed the warhammer from the hand of the dead guard even as the man dropped to the ground, then sprang among the Dedicates.
He bypassed the women and children who lay in heaps upon the stone floor, recalling Wuqaz's words: kill the vectors first.
“Raj Ahten,” Gaborn shouted. “Flee!”
And Borenson wondered, What is Gaborn doing?
Raj Ahten seemed to have the battle well in hand. Dozens of men rushed to fight him, stabbing with lances, hurling axes, sending arrows to fly. Amid the swirling mass of bloodthirsty warriors, Raj Ahten danced naked, a dance that left many men dead.
An Invincible raced up to Raj Ahten's back and hurled a scorpion dagger. Its poisoned blade struck him full, buried to the haft between his shoulder blades.
Raj Ahten shook himself, sending the blade flying. He whirled and drove the point of his spear through the man's eye socket. He hardly slowed as the wound in his back closed and healed.
He swung his spear, almost as if it were a club, and took out a man's throat.
He's too fast, Borenson thought. He's too strong.
He dared not draw near.
And then suddenly Raj Ahten seemed to stumble. In the midst of his dance, he slowed dramatically. His eyes were full of light, as if a dozen stars reflected from them. Smoke issued from his nostrils. His face contorted in alarm.
Borenson had seen that look of dismay upon the faces of other men. He'd had it upon his own. His Dedicates are dying! Borenson realized. He's lost his metabolism!
The warriors around Raj Ahten raced for the kill. A fellow from Heredon drove a spear through Raj's knee. Another swung a warhammer and spiked him through the back of the head.
Borenson rushed forward and would have attacked, but in his mind he heard Gaborn's voice, the shout of the Earth King, warning, “Hold back.”
He dodged back a pace, just as Raj Ahten thrust his spear toward him.
Then Borenson waded in and swung his warhammer, not with much strength, but with great accuracy. He struck Raj Ahten in the joint of the shoulder, taking off his right arm.
Blood gushed from the wound, and a Knight Equitable saw the game. He lunged with a great-ax and hacked off Raj Ahten's left arm.
Raj Ahten fell, screaming, and a dozen more warriors surged forward, eager to draw blood. They ringed him about and plunged in their spears, while the Knight Equitable lopped off both of the Wolf Lord's legs.
Raj Ahten wailed in horror, but such was the force of his endowments that he could not die.
“Stay your hands!” Myrrima shouted. “Don't kill him!” Her fearful tone stopped the men cold.
“He's aflameweaver,” she cautioned. “Kill him, and you'll loose the ele-mental within! Let the water have him.”
Cedrick Tempest rushed forward, shouting, “I like that. Let him go for a swim. I'll even give him the loan of my armor!”
He grabbed Raj Ahten, who now was but a torso, with arms and legs removed. Though blood flowed everywhere, Borenson saw to his dismay that Raj Ahten had begun to heal. The flesh had closed over his stumps, so that they had regenerated in a matter of moments more than a normal man's would have in months. Indeed, the stumps were lengthening, bud-ding new arms and legs.
Yet such healing came at a terrible price. Raj Ahten's body had to cannibalize fat and flesh and bones from his trunk in order to nourish the new limbs. He looked skeletal and sickly.
With the eager help of two other men, Tempest picked up Raj Ahten. As cinders rained down from above and a meteor blazed in the heavens, they bore him over the ash-covered field, through gore and mud, out to the ruins of the drawbridge. Gree still squeaked in the air, and the reavers charging in the distance made a distant rumble.
Raj Ahten's eyes glazed with pain, and he moaned in a daze. “My Dedicates!” Then his mind seemed to clear, and he cried plaintively to his enemies, “Serve me! Serve me. Let me go.”
But he had not enough Glamour or Voice left in him to sway his enemies.
Borenson followed the men, a chuckle rising involuntarily to his throat, as they climbed over reaver corpses to the bridge. The fires on the castle wall cast a dim red glow, creating a surreal tableau.
They reached the water, and Borenson saw huge shapes moving in circles there in the blackness. Salmon, he thought at first, finning in the water.
But the shapes were too large. They were more the size of sturgeon, like the great fish he'd seen in the moat at Castle Sylvarresta.
Water wizards, he suddenly realized with awe. Dozens of them swam in circles, small waves lapping against their backs, creating runes upon the surface of the lake.
There on the bridge, the axman noted that Raj Ahten had nearly grown a new right hand. Indeed, a child-sized nub had regenerated. They took a moment to lop it off.
Captain Tempest stripped his coat of ring mail and began to wrap Raj Ahten in it clumsily. “You wanted to take Heredon for its steel,” Tempest said. “But I'm afraid that this bit is all we're willing to give.”
Borenson pulled off
his own armor, and added it. Thus Raj Ahten was doubly weighted in mail.
With that, Tempest and another man grabbed the stump of Raj Ahten and hurled him into Lake Donnestgree.
He sank beneath the dark waves, his neck wrenching wildly as he struggled to scream. The water wizards circled him, as if excited, as he began to sink. The great fishes bumped him with their noses, like playful dolphins, pushing him up toward the surface, teasing him with the hope for air.
The water smelled so potent here, so omnipresent. The black waves lapped at the castle walls, and made soft sucking sounds.
Borenson stood on the causeway as if at the edge of ruin, unable to believe that Raj Ahten would die, unable to accept that anyone so powerful could be killed,
Light flashed underwater as a great red ball of flames erupted. The sur-face suddenly bubbled and foamed. Hot gases escaped, forming waves that rocked Lake Donnestgree. In the light, Borenson saw the monstrous ele-mental unleashed. A creature of flame took form, its hand seeking the sur-face, and it seemed to grow.
The stump of Raj Ahten's body fell away, burned so badly that ribs stuck out like ruined kindling, as it sank down into the waves.
The great fishes could suddenly be seen more clearly, darting about in excitement. The bright glow lasted only for a second, as the elemental faded, and then the water went dark again.
Still, the surface of the lake continued to boil for nearly a minute until the water grew calm and black and fell silent again.
Then there were only the dark waves lapping softly against the castle walls.
Borenson looked over his shoulder, saw Gaborn and Iome standing side by side atop some dead reavers, looking down. He could see no victory in either of their faces, no celebration. Gaborn looked grim, worn, while Iome seemed to be shocked and hurt by what they'd done.
Gaborn has lost, Borenson realized. The Earth King has lost one of his charges. Yet even then he noted a change in Gaborn.
Like the child Averan, or the Wizard Binnesman, his skin had taken on a green tone. No, it is darker, Borenson realized. More like the face of the green woman—or like the effigies we make for Hostenfest.
Only then did Borenson realize why Gaborn had sought to save Raj Ahten, the prize he had won through his forbearance. Gaborn had become the Earth King, at last.
42
THE EARTH AT PEACE
War is easy to come by. Lasting peace is rare, and to be treasured.
—Gaborn Val Orden
Gaborn strode into the streets of Carris and peered about. The few folk who saw him stared in amazement, and then drew back reverently. Someone muttered, “He has leaves on his face, oak leaves—the sign of the Earth King.”
And inevitably those who looked at him dropped to their knees in reverence.
Gaborn could feel the change that had taken place in him. Until to-night, he had only glimpsed the power he would have as an Earth King. Now he felt it. He was sinking his roots into the Earth, sending up shoots. He was beginning to see ways to use his powers that he had never imagined.
In the city, fires sputtered everywhere, and the town was a pile of rubble. Buildings lay crumbled, with huge stones lying in heaps, or leaned to their sides with timbers thrust out like broken ribs. But he sensed life beneath the ground, life like tender seeds, waiting to spring forth.
He drew a rune on the ground, a Rune of Protection from fire, and in moments the flames that burned everywhere began to dwindle and extinguish.
He stalked down an alley, sensing for life, and found a door. Iome, Borenson, and dozens of others followed him in silent awe.
In the ground at the foot of the door, Gaborn's sharp eyes could detect runes in the starlight—runes to protect the hunted from the unwelcome attention of the hunter, Runes of Strength to bar the door.
There were hundreds of doors like this throughout Carris, Gaborn knew. The men of Carris had dug many tunnels and chambers over the ages—cellars to store goods, tombs for the wealthy, tunnels to connect hidden passages beneath the castle walls.
“You have done a great work, it seems,” Gaborn told the Wizard Binnesman.
Silently he sent a message to his Chosen people hidden beneath the ground. “Come out. The danger is past, and the reavers are vanquished.”
Long seconds later, someone threw open the door and a pair of frightened commoners, men with pale faces who gripped their spears tightly, peered out.
Then they began to exit. One after another, the folk of Carris ushered forth, an old woman here, a pair there, until soon they began to fill the streets. They peered up in awe, for higher overhead the smoke had begun to clear, and now the stars fell like a shower of diamonds, flashes of silver and gold raining down in a clear night sky.
Soon, folks took stock of the empty fields before Carris and began shouting in jubilation. The crowd swelled the streets, until it became apparent that though many had died in the battle for Carris, perhaps half had been saved alive. Borenson stared at the emerging crowds, his jaw dropped in wonder, and said over and over, “I feared them dead. I thought them all dead.”
“Milord,” Captain Cedrick Tempest called to Gaborn, “the warlords of Internook wish to parlay.
Gaborn climbed the nearest wall so that he could look down over the southern reaches of Lake Donnestgree. There, longboats drifted like leaves, and in every boat a few torches lit the night. They bobbed like censers on the water. Iome stood beside Gaborn, looking down, her regal crown glowing with a thousand gems, while Gaborn's green cape pin glimmered as if a star had fallen on his shoulder.
Near the base of the castle wall, great fish swam about in circles.
Old Olmarg, the warlord of Internook, drew near in his longboat, his oarsmen driving him forward in graceful strokes. He saw the water wizards ahead, and signaled for the oarsmen to stop. He gazed up at Gaborn and squinted with his one good eye, as if appraising him.
Gaborn looked out over the ships. He could feel a threat here, still. Olmarg was unsure whether to press the attack, or flee.
“The people of this realm are under my protection,” Gaborn warned him. “Come against us, and we will destroy you.”
Olmarg growled and said dangerously. “We came and fought a war for the plunder, and you'll give us nothing? My men spilled good blood here. A reward seems in order.”
“Your name will go down in songs, as one who fought bravely,” Gaborn said. “Your great-grandchildren will sing your praise.”
Olmarg barked a laugh, and peered south. The pounding of reaver feet came like the roar of a distant ocean, and their backs were black in the starlight as they struggled over the hills.
“Damn,” Olmarg said, “we came and fought for nothing but the joy of battle.” He appraised Gaborn once again, and quickly decided that any man who could take on an army of reavers would not be cowed by the likes of him. He smiled broadly. “But it was worth it.”
Olmarg raised high a bright sphere, an orb of purest white. Gaborn could see clouds and light swirling, as if storms raged within, and almost immediately a gale picked up, came speeding from the north.
“Hoist sails,” Olmarg shouted. “We're going home.”
Gaborn nodded thoughtfully. The sense of danger at Carris was gone.
As the warlords of Internook set sail, Averan turned and saw troops fleeing to the west. Many of Raj Ahten's troops raced over the hills, terrified that Gaborn would come and make an example of them. Rialla Lowicker's troops handled themselves in a courtlier manner. They banded together, and began blowing horns in long wailing notes. Her knights bore her body on a bier, with all of their flags flying about, and headed north in a sedate march as if to give her a heroine's funeral.
As if to echo their calls, the frowth giants climbed a hill to the west and called out, “Wahoot! Wahoot!” over and over. They beat upon hollow logs, and their leaders raised a dead reaver high overhead, as if to make an offering to Gaborn, and then laid it on the battlefield.
Only King Anders's men had refused to
pack up and go skulking away in the darkness. In moments a knight came riding from his camp. The fellow looked fearful. He rode up to the castle wall and stood on the parapet, looking up. He called out to Gaborn, “Your Highness, my lord King Anders of South Crowthen sends his congratulations on a battle well won, and wishes you peace and a long life.”
“Why does he not come and offer such words himself?” Gaborn asked suspiciously.
“I fear that moving him unnecessarily would not be wise. His surgeons tell me that he has taken a mortal wound, and wishes only to return and die within sight of his homeland. I fear that he will not make it. Still, we beg your indulgence, and ask that you grant us permission to leave the battlefield.”
“What of Celinor?” Iome asked.
“The boy is with his father, trying to ease his way,” the messenger said. “He also begs permission to leave the battlefield.”
Gaborn peered across the battlefield, filled with misgivings. Anders had claimed to be the Earth King, and now he asked to leave the battlefield?
“I will come to bid him farewell,” Gaborn said.
With that, he sped across the field faster than the messenger could have imagined, past dead reavers, up the hill to a small rise where Anders's startled guards barely had time to register his approach before he was at Anders's tent.
Erin Connal lay outside it, bound hand and foot. Inside the tent, Anders lay abed with Celinor at his side. His wound did not look mortal. Gaborn peered at the man with his Earth Sight, and saw within him something far more terrifying than any reaver. There was a shadow in him, a blackness deep and grotesque.
Celinor and the guards reacted slowly to Gaborn's presence. They shouted and began to fall back.
King Anders opened his eyes to slits, peered up at Gaborn, and merely smiled. “Will you kill me?”
“What would be the point?” Gaborn asked. “A locus cannot be slain.” Celinor had staggered back a step and was drawing his blade, as if to protect his father. Gaborn stopped him with a glance.
“You are wise, Earth King,” Anders said.
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